


The Letting Go

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Episode Related, Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Renunciation is not giving up the things of the world, but accepting that they go away.</i><br/>-- Suzuki Roshi</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 3.04. (General spoilers for season 3.)

Peter squared his shoulders and knocked on Neal's door. It was late and Neal's door was always open, but Peter couldn't take liberties anymore. He needed to rebuild their boundaries, brick by brick, starting today. (The brick expression reminded him of his father, who would have been profoundly scandalized by Peter's recent conduct if he knew.)

The door opened, and there was Neal, his smile soft and pleased, his eyes guarded. "Hey."

His hair was damp, as if he'd just showered, and God, Peter wanted him, despite everything. Despite the last two weeks of restless nights, of turning up to work every morning with gritted teeth, wondering if today would be the day Neal wouldn't show. The day after the last day. It would come sooner or later.

Peter's hands were cold; he shoved them in his pockets. "We need to talk. Are you alone?"

"Yeah," said Neal. "Yeah, come in." He opened the door wider, his smile fading. "What's on your mind, Peter?"

Peter went to stand by the table. Didn't kiss him hello. He waited till the door was closed. "El's changed her mind," he said abruptly. There was no way to soften it. "She's withdrawn her consent."

Neal was closing a laptop, putting it aside, but his head came up sharply at that. "What? Why?"

"Do you want me to say it?"

Neal shook his head, apparently lost for words, and Peter met his gaze. Love was a vast ache in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know how he was going to survive losing it, but he couldn't keep on the way they were.

Neal's eyes darkened with hurt. "So it's over?" He stepped forward and shook his head. "You can switch it off, just like that?"

"I can't do this anymore." Not with the ever-present suspicion between them, the gnawing certainty than Neal already had one foot out the door. El had done Peter a favor, taking the decision out of his hands. His fists clenched in his pockets. "I care too much."

A shutter came down, hiding Neal's reaction, but Peter could see through it. Could hear the loss in his voice. "Not even one for the road?" Peter's temper flared, but Neal raised a hand to placate him. "It's just an expression. Please, Peter."

He cupped the side of Peter's neck. His breath was hot and sweet on Peter's lips.

"You have Sara now," Peter told him, but it was a token resistance. Neal was an alchemist, turning Peter's anger to desire, his regrets to reckless need. El would understand one for the road. She'd practically said so.

"It's not like this with Sara," said Neal. "It's nothing like this." He leaned forward those last few inches and kissed Peter slowly and tenderly, as if they had all the time in the world. Peter closed his eyes and kissed him back, one last time, his body already responding. He wrapped his arms around Neal and held him tight, his lean coiled strength, the scent of soap. His hair was slick under Peter's fingers, beginning to curl. Peter clamped down on a surge of emotions and unbuttoned Neal's shirt, exposing his chest.

Neal shuddered and pressed against him, dragging him closer, and Peter didn't ever want to let him go. In the past, their lovemaking had been intense, playful and urgent, by turns, but it had never been like this, with a sharp edge of despair slicing through Peter like a knife.

He maneuvered Neal to the bed and pushed him onto his back, and after a fleeting, silent negotiation, went down on him, trying to express everything he felt, all his frustration and regrets in the movements of his hands and mouth. Neal writhed under his touch, murmured broken syllables as if he, too, were overcome with feelings. As if Peter weren't just another chapter in his history, to be closed and forgotten as soon as Neal found a way to leave.

He caught Peter by the shoulder and dragged him up before he came, and Peter stroked him with his hand and watched his face as his orgasm took him, the moment of rare vulnerability captured forever in Peter's memory.

Neal kissed him, heavy and sated, and started trying to peel Peter out of his clothes, but Peter stopped him. He wanted Neal, would probably always want him, but he couldn't bear to expose himself knowing they were already over. "No."

Neal swallowed hard and looked away. "Okay."

"Neal." Peter sighed and kicked his shoes off, letting them thump to the floor like ripe plums in that poem El liked. He pulled Neal into his arms and held him. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't even sure what he was sorry for: it was Neal who was planning to go, who was prepared to pass up everything they had for a cache of stolen Nazi treasure and a life on the run. It was Neal who was planning to go. But Peter was sorry. Maybe if he'd been able to trust unconditionally. Maybe if he'd been kinder, if he'd sheltered Neal from taunts about the anklet instead of adding to them. If he'd changed himself somehow, so they fitted together better.

Fitted together like their bodies did now, every curve and plane hard up against another, their breathing synchronized, Neal's hand at Peter's waist. Peter closed his eyes, sinking into the moment.

"A partnership is a commitment," said Neal. "A pact."

Peter stilled, hope searing his vision. Had Neal turned a corner? Had he decided to stay after all?

"The longer it endures, the more necessary it becomes, until you can't walk away." Peter didn't know if Neal were quoting someone or not, but it sounded careful, each word chosen. "From the one who needs you," Neal continued. "Where they go, you follow. Whatever the cost."

The flame of hope twisted and vanished, leaving yet another livid scar. Neal wasn't talking about him, about their partnership. For the first time in a long time, Peter was jealous of Mozzie and furious with him for dividing Neal's loyalties. He opened his eyes. "I need you."

"No," said Neal, quietly certain. "You'll be all right."

"Right." Peter pressed his lips together. He'd decided after the Lawrence case not to beg. If Neal chose to stay, it had to be for himself, because it was what he wanted, not just to make Peter happy. "What about you?"

"I won't be alone." Neal rolled onto his back, still in the circle of Peter's arms.

Peter rested his head on Neal's shoulder. "Do you trust Mozzie?"

"I trust him enough." There was a finality to his tone that extinguished Peter's last spark of hope.

He shook his head. How had he ended up here, in the rooftop apartment of a New York mansion, breaking up with his boyfriend, a con artist and a felon? How could the loss of this improbable situation cut so deep?

"Peter." Neal turned his head to look at him, his expression earnest. "You could come with us. You and Elizabeth. Start a new life."

"That's not an option." Peter didn't have to think about it. Love wasn't reason enough to forfeit Elizabeth's life and his own, to give up everything they'd worked for, including his self-respect, and become fugitives. Neal's face began to fracture, eyebrows and lips and the sharp angles of his jaw and nose—all drifting apart slightly. He was a mirage. None of this was real.

The mouth and the jaw combined to swallow protests and persuasion. "Then that's that."

"That's that." Peter closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Neal had re-formed out of his constituent parts. He was whole and beautiful, his face pale, his eyes dark. Almost out of reach, stopping only long enough to say goodbye. They were both saying goodbye. Peter's throat ached. "I—" _love you._

Neal covered Peter's mouth with his fingers to stop the declaration. "I know," he said. "Me too." He removed his hand and kissed Peter before the words could escape.

And then it was too late. There was nothing to do but leave. Peter pulled himself together, put his shoes back on, straightened his clothes and dabbed uselessly at a small patch of semen on his pants.

Neal had slipped into a robe and was standing by, watching. "See you at work tomorrow?"

"Yeah," said Peter. "Tomorrow." As many tomorrows as Mozzie would permit them.

Neal's shoulders hunched slightly. "It's going to be strange."

"Yeah." Peter wanted to kiss him again, a final farewell, but the mood had shifted. They were already too far apart, spinning off on separate orbits. "It's going to be—how it should have been all along."

He said it to remind himself as much as Neal, not thinking through the implications: that this whole thing had been a mistake, a transgression. That they didn't belong together. Neal took it on the chin. "We'll get by."

Peter exhaled slowly, adjusting to the new order of things. Elizabeth was at home, waiting. There was nothing left to say. He went to the door and paused, turning back for a last look.

Neal was like a statue, watching, his gaze more eloquent than a thousand spoken "I love you"s. His hands hung loosely at his sides.

Peter tried to nod, but he didn't have it in him. He turned and left, his footsteps hollow on the wooden treads as he made his way downstairs. This was the right thing to do—best for everyone. Brick by brick, it was time to start rebuilding.


End file.
